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It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour’d of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life! Life pi…

Every
individual requires the ongoing validation of his world, including crucially the
validation of his identity and place in this world, by those few who are his
truly significant others. ... Again in a broad sense, all the actions of the
signifi­cant others and even their simple presence serve this sustaining
function. In every­day life, however, the principal method employed is speech.
In this sense, it is proper to view the individual's relationship with his
significant others as an ongo­ing conversation. As the latter occurs, it
validates over and over again the fundamental definitions of reality once
entered into, not, of course, so much by explicit articulation, but precisely
by taking the definitions silently for granted and conversing about all
conceivable matters on this taken-for-granted basis. Through the same
conversation the individual is also made capable of adjusting to changing and
new social contexts in his biography. In a very fundamental sense it can be
said t…

Do you know what is the best way of getting rid of someone or keeping this someone at distance? Give her or him a lot more than what they are asking for. They will not stand it and they will soon leave you alone. The only problem is that if you did behave out of sincerity and didn't do it on purpose you will not be happy at all with the results of your behavior.

The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a b…

No word means anything, no silence, no behavior, no phrase can be correctly interpreted if we cannot identify who is talking and acting. Let's say that it's a basic rule of language. That's why talking about the death of the subject is nonsense.

You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.

I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.

By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.

Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.

I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.

I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned

and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Thoug…

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